The Unspeakable
by Somnacin
Summary: A Slayer, a vampire, and the Key deal with the events following Dawn's successful resurrection of one Joyce Summers... rewrite of the fifth season of Buffy, starting with the episode "Forever".
1. Call My Name

Unfortunately, the almighty Joss Whedon owns more of my story and its characters than I do...that is to say, the entire cast of **Buffy the Vampire Slayer **and **Angel.**

My muse was stirred whilst I was sitting before my new HDTV watching the 5th season of **Buffy, **or, more specifically, the episode "Forever". I began to wonder what would have happened if Dawn hadn't burned the photo of Joyce before Buffy opened the door, and what would have happened if Gora demons happened to have a bit more of a bite....

* * *

_Shaking legs carried her up the narrow staircase, a hand stretched out against the wall knocking down a picture frame; it thunked lazily onto the carpeted step above which it had previously hung, but quick stocking feet were already stumbling towards the sacred circle that had drawn a dead mother out of her grave, a fear-scrambled mind forgetting the fallen picture frame and the happy, smiling faces of its occupants. Trembling fingers snagged the edge of a more important photograph, a falling knee whose owner had made a dramatic miscalculation in the angle of her descent tipping the bowl of zombie potion onto the carpet, splashing luminous purple albumen everywhere. A moment was spared to cuss and swipe at the hot, gooey fluid with her sleeve, and in that moment flew her chance to undo the wrong. Wood cracked against a wall downstairs and she lifted her voice, such as it was, to scream;_

_"Buffy! Close the door!"_

_"Mommy?" Her sister's outcry was sharp with an undefinable emotion, an emotion only once heard by the younger sister prior to that chilly February night. It had been in her voice when she'd first cried out after discovering her night of passion with Angel had cost him a soul, lost forever... "Mommy?"_

_"Oh, darling..."_

_The warm, familiar cadences of a voice she never thought she'd hear again froze her limbs in mid-motion, the photo she clutched in an unsteady hand quivering above the candle flame that was meant to be its destruction...and quite suddenly, Dawn realized she couldn't continue. She couldn't burn the picture if it meant looking into Buffy's eyes and knowing she'd sent their mother back into Death's chill embrace, when it obliviated any hope Buffy had of resuming college and a normal life, when it meant Dawn could come home after school to find warm cookies and a patient, unjudgmental math tutor. When not burning the picture meant more than it did to burn it, even if Dawn's own soul was damned forever for stealing an angel from Heaven._

_"Mom?"_

_"Dawnie?"_

_The sound of her mother's voice rolling over the quick, sharp letters of her name finally urged her into motion; the precious photo was quickly stowed beneath a pile of clothing in her unmentionables drawer, and rainbow-colored feet dragged her downstairs to meet the only parent she'd nearly lost forever._

_**********************************************************************_


	2. Bring Me to Life

_Unfortunately, the almighty Joss Whedon owns more of my story and its characters than I do...that is to say, the entire cast of **Buffy the Vampire Slayer **and **Angel.**_

* * *

Joyce stared at the woman in the mirror, at the pale grey skin beneath the tastefully applied makeup, at the hollows that set her eyes deep in the face that had begun the ugly process of crumpling in on itself. She stared at the plain white dress hanging over her shoulders, with the pearl necklace and earrings to match. She stared at the stiff fingers of her hands and the black imprint of the veins in her wrists. She stared at the deep, soulless eyes, pushed back into the clean white bone of her skull. She stared at the legs whose muscles had begun to atrophy the moment she'd first collapsed onto her sofa, blindsided by the brilliant nothingness of the void. She stared at the mirror and _Death_ stared back.

_I will never be beautiful again, _she thought. _Not even middle-age beautiful, like I used to hope. I will look corpse beautiful, and that is all._

For a split-second she saw herself going to watch Dawn graduate from high school, or Buffy finish college...and realized that these, like so many former fantasies, would always be just that: fantasies. Sunlight would look so odd on her cold, dead flesh, and who knew if she would even want to be surrounded by the press of parents that always attended such things? To them she would appear a corpse, and why not? She _was_ a corpse. A hideous, reanimated corpse without even a demon inside to keep her young and pale and lovely forever. People would cringe when she greeted them, artists would throw aside their tools at the sight of her, friends would promise to visit and forget in the same moment. Joyce Summers might as well be dead to them; she was dead to herself, why shouldn't they be?

She choked on tears her dead eyes scouldn't spill and turned away from the mirror, looking at the tub and the water that had begun pouring over the sides to soak feet that couldn't even feel its warmth. Which one of her children had done this to her, she could only guess, and she knew the poor thing had just wanted her mother back...but they had no idea what the rest of her half-life would hold. No friends, no work, no dates, no sex, no tears or burning her mouth on Christmas cookies or holding her children and feeling their warm little bodies against her. There would be _nothing._

"Mom?" Buffy's voice, shaking with joyful anxiety. "Willow's here."

Joyce reached out and pulled the plug, dropping a bathtowel onto the floor to soak up the water puddle. She might have cared about the towel before-- it had a monogrammed H on it, presumably a relic of Hank's she'd kept around just so it felt like she still had a husband--but she didn't now. What did corpses care for their surroundings?

"I'm finished," she said.

************************************************

Willow pressed her fingertips against her temples and sighed as Buffy tried, once more, to explain what they were doing to Joyce. The older woman had spoken very little since Buffy had fetched her from the upstairs bathroom, preferring instead to stare at her palms; if Tara had been here, Willow would have had her read Joyce's hand, see if there was anything there that might predict how things were about to turn out. Was there a skip in the lifeline that somehow explained Joyce's return? Was there a note in the love-line that spoke of happiness in Joyce's future?

"Will, I think she understands," Buffy said quietly. "Can we start now?"

"Sure thing." Willow walked to the fireplace and switched on the gas. "Now, you'll want Dawnie to forget this happened too?"

"No." Dawn said angrily. "I don't want to forget."

"Sweetie--"

"I'm not forgetting!"

Silence spread through the living room, thick with anticipation and unspoken words; Willow silently recited the names of those she would have forget Joyce's death. _Angel, Anya, Cordelia, Giles, Tara, Wesley, Xander..._

When she spoke again, it was not with her own voice, but rather the voice of that deep, secret place in her soul; the reservoir of her magickal ability. Afterwards, Willow wouldn't even remember what she'd said, nor the words to the spell she'd recited. What she would know was that when she walked home, Tara asked if Joyce had lent her that cup of sugar she was supposed to ask for. And Willow shook her head, said she'd forgotten, and fallen fast asleep, sparing only a moment to dab at the blood streaming from her left nostril.

* * *

Water clung to her thick, sunshine-colored hair with stubborn silver fingers, sliding over the delicate skin of her rose-colored cheeks and quivering on her thick eyelashes. The quick rain didn't seem to impede her movement in the slightest; she kicked and spun and drove her stake home with the smooth, steady grace of a practiced dancer, someone who was a master of her art. The vampires unfortunate enough to choose that moonless night to rise found themselves becoming flower food before they even freed themselves from the mud, dying with a roar half-formed on their lips as they just barely caught the spicy scent of the most potent blood in their world and the next. He sighed and flicked his cigarette onto the grass beneath the pillar upon which he was most precariously seated, hardly able to draw his eyes away from Buffy long enough to watch the glowing coal of its tip flicker out.

He shouldn't have left his crypt that night--he was under very strict orders, and she was going to be cross when she found out he'd left--but the desire to see Buffy in action had spurred him on, forcing him to ignore the pangs of his demon-ravaged stomach. It had been too long since he'd watched her in the midst of the dance, seen the vicious delight in her emerald eyes as she sent another foe to the depths of Hell, noted the way the muscles in her thin body flowed gracefully beneath her golden skin... she paused for a moment to whip her damp curls into a ponytail, and didn't see the pale hand burst from the ground a few stones away.

_I shouldn't, _he thought guiltily. _'ve only just started gettin' better..._

But it was sacrifice his own health, or sacrifice Buffy's, and that was hardly a choice. He sprang off of the pillar and sped past a sufficiently started Slayer, wincing a bit as the long strides of his legs pulled at the muscles of his side; the tight skin over his wound ripped in mid-movement, but he carried through, sliding to the fledge and wrenching him free of the water-soaked earth. For a moment the thing struggled, yellow gaze boring into the elder vampire's forehead; he felt his features melt into those of the demon, temporarily soothing the baby vamp...

"What is your problem, man?"

"My problem, mate," Spike growled, "Is that I'm in love with the bloody Slayer, an' she hates my fuckin' guts."

The fledge blinked stupidly at him, obviously still a little dazed by the bloodlust and the long crawl to the surface. Spike shrugged.

"Had to tell someone."

And he tore the baby vamp's head off of its shoulders, shaking rain out of his eyes and pressing the hand that wasn't holding a handful of dust against his side. The dampness there wasn't entirely rain; it was lukewarm, and it hurt like hell. Footsteps squished against the grass as Buffy approached, her presence bringing with it the thick smell of her vanilla shampoo twined with raspberry bodywash, sugary gum, and peppery Slayer blood. He held up his dusty hand (which was more like his goopy hand: rain was not kind to vampire remains) to warn her away, bending a bit as he tried to squash his pain back into the little box he'd had it so carefully contained in.

"Spike, what...you're hurt?"

"Nah." He shook his head, a movement designed both to look nonchalant and to force the water from his eyes. "Just got a stitch in my side, 's all."

"Uh-huh." She didn't sound convinced; he could almost hear her arms folding over her chest in that particularly condescending way, a smile pulling on her carefully glossed lips. "Lemme see."

"It's nothin', Slayer!" Spike snarled. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

She paused, the air between them quivering with the weight of her offended silence. After a heartbeat or two, he groaned and leaned against the nearest tombstone, muttering an apology as she moved closer, fingertips ghosting over his side...and dipping into the hollow created by the Gora demon's teeth. _She's gonna fuckin' kill me..._

"What is this?" Her voice was sharp, the way his mum's had been when he'd come home with welts on his hands and back as rewards for his clumsiness. "This wasn't done tonight."

"No," he confessed. "But that's all I'm sayin'."

Buffy paused again, and he faintly heard her heart pick up speed; she was embarrassed about something. It was coming off her in waves even a human as thick as Xander could read.

"Can I--"

"S'pose," he said, trying to sound indifferent.

Warm fingers plucked at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards with a swift jerk, obviously trying to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. Maybe she hoped it wasn't as bad as she imagined...maybe she hoped it would be something trivial so she could punch him in the nose and laugh as she called him _thing, _and _weak,_ and _disgusting. _But the other girl had told him repeatedly his side looked like those Doublemeat patties that came pre-mashed for little old ladies, so he wasn't surprised when Buffy made a gagging noise and grasped his chin with her soft little hand, forcing him to look at her.

"What did this to you?"

"Demon," he replied.

"How long--"

"A few days."

"This should have healed."

"You're tellin' me."

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, obviously debating whether or not she ought to shove him to the ground or offer to take him home for tea. Not wanting to put the Slayer in an uncomfortable position, Spike gently freed himself from her grasp, straightening his shirt and forcing himself to stand upright.

"I should...go," he said. "Don' wanna make you do anythin' you don' need to."

"Spike--"

"Mortal enemies, remember?" He gestured towards his face. "Chained you up in my basement, plotted to kill you...ringin' any bells?"

"Spike--"

"Tell the Bit I said hi."

His thoughts lingered on the photograph Dawn had given him earlier the same day, pressing it into his hands and urging him to hide it somewhere, anywhere.

_She keeps going into my room and looking for it. She doesn't think it's right that I have it, that I have so much power over her. She doesn't have a soul, Spike. She'll kill me if she finds it._

"An' Joyce too, while you're at it."

"Oh." The little blonde blinked at him and glanced up at the cloud-covered sky. "I will."

"Now run along, 'fore you catch a cold."

"Right." She flushed prettily. "Um, take care, Spike."

"Same to you."

They parted that way, the Slayer's brow wrinkled with consternation, the vampire practically floating home on a rose-colored cloud.

************************************************

She liked the way Joyce waited for her to come home, sitting with her froggy umbrella on the covered porch...always holding a cup of over-sugared coffee and a plate of snickerdoodles and listening sympathetically as she whined about this class, and how that boy stood her up on their unofficial Bronze date, and how hard it was not having a car at the age of almost 20. She liked the way Joyce felt when she slipped her arms around the frail shoulders, holding the cold, zombie body of her mother for as long as she could before snagging one of the proffered cookies and skipping inside. Tonight was supposed to be better; Dawn was away at Janice's, always careful not to hang around Joyce too much (they'd been fighting), and Willow was going to come over with brownies, Tara, and _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_.But seeing Spike at the cemetery had dampened her girls-night mood--not to mention her hair-- and she wasn't as happy as she usually was upon spotting Joyce waiting on the porch.

"Hi, Mom." Buffy slipped in and out of her mother's embrace as quickly as she could, though whether that was because she didn't want to soak her or because she didn't necessarily want to smell more _Eau la dead person_, she didn't exactly know. "Is Will here yet?"

"Yes." Joyce closed the froggy umbrella with a little more vehemence than Buffy was used to, icy fingers reaching out and squeezing the water out of Buffy's ponytail with an almost absent-minded tug. Apparently her mind was residing on matters beyond the hotness of Matthew McConaughey as well. "She and Tara got here a few minutes ago, and they're talking about getting mint chocolate chip."

"Excuse me?" The word _chip _had set Buffy down the whole "Spike" path of thinking again; she couldn't get the image of his tattered belly out of her head, nor the quiet little noise he'd made when she'd lifted his shirt...

"And little aliens bit my face off, and carried Dawn away to the land of magickal fairies." Joyce concluded.

"Haha," Buffy said drily. "I caught that last bit, Mom."

"I thought so." Her mother smiled; it was, to be frank, nasty. Her teeth needed whitening again. "Let's go in, hmm?"

"Sounds great." She pushed Spike and his injury into the corner of her mind, where she'd stashed Glory, Riley, and worrying about Dawn...at least for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

_Okay, so...please let me know what you think!! I got rid of the first chapter because it was, upon closer inspection, quite rambly and redundant, so I patched it up and **voila**! Here's my new masterpiece; hope you like it!_

_-DP_


	3. Save Me From the Dark

_Unfortunately, the almighty Joss Whedon owns more of my story and its characters than I do...that is to say, the entire cast of **Buffy the Vampire Slayer **and **Angel.**_

* * *

She was waiting for him when he got back, her face pale and angry in the cream-colored candlelight. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail that very closely resembled the one her older sister had been wearing earlier, only it made _her _face look sharper, more severe, whereas on Buffy...prodding fingers found the slight warmth of his side and immediately began pulling on his shirt, hardly waiting for an invitation. Spike ground his teeth together and let her drag him, still half bent-over, towards the roll of her sleeping bag and the rucksack stuffed with medical supplies.

"I told you not to go out," she said angrily. "And now you've gone and opened it again."

"She needed me," he insisted. "Your sis would be--"

"_The Slayer_ heals faster than you do."

"Don' call her 'the Slayer' ", Spike grumbled. "Sounds creepy, comin' from you."

Dawn rolled her eyes and dipped a cotton ball into the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, carefully dabbing it on the edges of Spike's wound and watching the red-streaked flesh sizzle. He might have said she enjoyed her role of nurse a little too much, but he hardly dared to do so when he'd been the one foolish enough to leave the crypt in the first place...the gentle whisper of fingers sliding through his hair drew him back to the soft warmth of the present; sometimes he forgot how nice it was to be petted, to just sit in perfect, silent companionship. Over a century of life, and Drusilla had never once held his head in her lap and been sweet to him, Harmony had never once ceased in her coaxings for sex long enough to permit him to start a conversation (that didn't end in tears), and Buffy...Spike closed his eyes and imagined the Slayer in Dawn's place, smoothing his gel-stiffened hair away from his forehead. She would never stop in her gross discriminations long enough to see that he really did love her, and he wasn't brainless enough to dream that she would reciprocate his emotions. _Always a fool..._

"Feel better?" Dawn asked quietly, carefully pushing his head out of her lap and stretching her slender arms out over her head. Her blood rushed smoothly through her veins along with the movement, touched with hints of green and gold; she smelled divine, thick with the mingled essence of magick and Slayer...when was the last time he'd eaten?

"You're vampy," she noted, returning to rub her fingertips against his ridged brow. "Are you hungry?"

"Hmm..." Spike shook his head and felt his human features slide into place, pushing his bloodlust to the back of his mind. He'd eaten in front of Dawn before, but he'd never missed the repulsed look on her face when he did. "Nah. More sleepy than anythin' else."

"Me too," the teenager replied. He closed his eyes again as she gently slid her hands under the back of his neck, lifting his head up and placing it against her thigh. Her scent changed, became thick with weariness and a sort of odd, restless calm; Spike waited a moment or two to see if she would fall off right away and he could put her to bed. Poor Bit hadn't been sleeping well of late, though whether it was because of the brisk chill that had followed the sudden onslaught of rain, or because she was afraid to go home, he didn't know.

"How's Joyce?" he asked.

Her scent changed again, sour undercurrents of fear weaving through the warm, sugary smell of sleep; her hands returned to his hair, the pads of her fingers rubbing soothing circles into his scalp. She was trying to distract him, knowing full well--due to prolonged exposure, he hoped--that he loved to be loved. _Sweet Bit._

"She's fine," Dawn said briskly. "I mean, I hardly see her around the house anymore. She stays out of my room now."

"Not lookin' for the photo, then?"

"I think she knows it isn't there," she replied. "We haven't really spoken in a while, so I'm not really sure what she's thinking..." A tiny laugh burst from her throat, thick with unspoken grief and loathing. "At least I'm not waking up to a big ol' knife anymore."

"What does that mean?" Spike asked sharply, eyes snapping open. "Has Joyce been--"

"Making attempts on my life?" Dawn sighed. "Not in the last few days."

"_Days_?" He would have sat up, but the teenager placed her hands against his shoulders and held him down; fighting her would have meant awakening his chip, so he subsided with a growl. "You should've told me, Nibblet. I coulda done somethin'."

"Like what? Throw a migraine at her?" Her voice was shrill but playful, her heartrate beginning to slow as her terror began to fade into quiet exhaustion. "She doesn't care about me anymore, Spike. She'll probably keep looking, but she won't touch me again."

"'Cause she smells funny an' doesn't want you goin' to school reekin' of dead person?" _Sorriest joke I ever heard in my life._

"Uh-huh," Dawn giggled. Her laughter subsided a moment later as she leaned down and rubbed her cheek against his forehead, a peppermint-flavored sigh rushing past her lips. "I love you, Spike."

"Love you too, Bit," he said thickly, the words moving oddly against his tongue; he was out of practice. Telling a mannequin you loved it was one thing, but telling a hurting teenage girl you loved her without having to directly say "you're my best friend" or, "I'll always be here for you" was another thing entirely.

But he must have said something right, because she relaxed against him, and in no less than five minutes he was carrying her downstairs and putting her to bed.

************************************************

Joyce buried her hands wrist-deep in Dawn's sweater drawer, fingers stroking the smooth wood at the bottom and tingling in anticipation for the moment when she would feel the gloss of a picture instead...a sudden burst of laughter from below drove a sliver of ice into her heart and she froze, waited for the soft whisper of feet against the stairs, then continued her search. She was already fairly certain that Dawn had anticipated her snooping and taken the necessary precautions; the photograph was probably stowed in a box in Janice's house, or tucked under the carpet in Xander's new apartment. Hell, her daughter might even have given it to Spike and encouraged him to hide it in the sewers below the city...in which case Joyce was royally screwed.

She'd decided a day or two after her resurrection that it wasn't safe to put a 14 year old in charge of the reason for her existence, just in case Joyce wanted to have her hands on it...so that if her half-life finally became too much for her to bear, she could tear the photo and end it. But Dawn had refused to grant her custody of the thing--perhaps hearing the hunger behind her gentle coaxings-- and finally screamed at the top of her lungs that since she had done so much to bring Joyce back, the least she could do was hold on to the picture. Oh, how Joyce's fingers had itched to wrap around her daughter's throat and squeeze until the bloom of her cheeks faded to an ashy gray...how she'd dreamed of killing the young girl and hauling _her_ back from the afterlife, laughing as her daughter finally realized what she'd subjected her mother to. She'd tried once or twice to make the dream real, stood over Dawn in the middle of the night with one of her wood-handled steak knives and imagined thrusting it into the girl's chest, running the silvery blade over her throat and watching the blood stain the bedsheets...

Of course, this was all wishful thinking, the empty gap where the soul had resided speaking in place of her common sense. She couldn't kill Dawn; like it or not, the girl had been placed under the protection of the Summers household, and soul or no soul, Joyce couldn't give her up to a hellgod just because she was being completely _idiotic, foul, stupid--_

"Ms. Summ--oh." Tara paused halfway through the door, lips twisting into a feeble half-smile as she noticed Joyce's hands deep in Dawn's clothing, the last of her murderous rage still written on her face. "I'm sorry, B-buffy j-j-just wanted--"

"What is it, dear?" Joyce asked, put out by the interruption but making an attempt to be friendly nonetheless.

The Wiccan's fingers tugged anxiously on the hem of her Winnie the Pooh pajama shirt, her cheeks turning an embarrassed shade of rose.

"I'm folding clothes, sweetie, so if this isn't important..."

Still Tara said nothing, obviously preferring to keep her eyes focused on the foot-flattened carpet of Dawn's room. Buffy's mother only just barely kept herself from rolling her eyes, moving instead to close the door quietly in the girl's face. It was then that Tara spoke, putting a hand between the door and its frame in order to keep Joyce in her line of sight.

"We h-have ice cream," she said.

"No we don't, dear. I haven't made a run to the store because of the rain--"

"Buffy invited An-Anya," Tara announced quickly, once more twisting the fabric of her shirt around long, damp fingers. "Y-you weren't coming d-down, and we needed a fourth p-person, so..."

"I understand," Joyce lied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish the laundry."

The young woman bit her lip and nodded, looking uncertainly towards the stairs, making Joyce wonder; was Buffy listening? Had she heard her mother's casual dismissal of their girl's night? A very small part of Joyce hoped she had, hoped that perhaps now Buffy would realize what pain she was in, that spending the evening surrounded by vibrant, beautiful women only emphasized the fact that she was ugly and repulsive and dead. She kept up the pretense of re-folding Dawn's sweaters for a few minutes, half-expecting Buffy to appear at the top of the stairs with another lecture on how she had to act like her death had never happened, reminding her that she was supposed to act like a middle-aged woman recovering from brain surgery instead of a corpse struggling to deal with living again. But nobody ever showed, and after a moment or two she sank very slowly to the floor, fingers absent-mindedly running under the gap between Dawn's bed and the floor...and stumbling over the hard, glossy back of-- Joyce pulled it out from the shadows under the bed, reading the glittering words with hopeful black eyes.

_Diary of Dawn Summers._

* * *

She awoke just in time to hear the soft _ping _of the doorbell, a perfunctory glance at the TV clock claiming that it was only a little after four; the sun wasn't due to rise for another hour at least, leaving Buffy to assume their visitor was of the undead persuasion. Spike, then, unless Angel had suddenly decided to come a-calling with apocalyptic news or a sudden urge to stalk...

_Put me down, Spike. _

_You're s'posed to be asleep!_

_Yeah, well, you're not exactly the smoothest walker, buddy. Put me down and we can go in._

_I'm kinda locked out at the moment. _A pause. _Y'know, chained Buffy up in my crypt...ringin' bells?_

Buffy eased herself off the couch, tightening the belt of her bathrobe in order to keep herself from freezing the moment she opened the door. The weather hadn't been typical California fare for the past few days, and everyone had to prep themselves for guests; she couldn't suppress a smile as she recalled how Xander had answered his door on Monday, wearing a thick Eskimo parka and seventeen pairs of pants...he had been warm, at least, though Willow had teased him endlessly about his get-up for the remainder of the evening. For a minute or two she considered doing the same thing...she was pretty sure her suede jacket was in the hallway closet somewhere...

The door opened and revealed Dawn standing on the threshold with Spike, his long fingers grasping the keychain she always carried in her jeans pocket as the girl strugged to untangle her backpack from his duster. The former didn't seem to notice Buffy at all, swearing under her breath and swiping at her long, dark hair, obviously hoping to make herself look as presentable as possible in case she was intercepted on her way to her room. The latter noticed her immediately, the sharp angles of his face softening as his deep blue eyes filled with warm, sweet emotion, his mouth opening in an inaudible sigh. After a still beat, the awed look on his face fell away and was replaced by a hunted one instead, broad shoulders hunching a bit as he whispered something to Dawn.

"Buffy?!" the teenager shrieked, one hand flying to her mouth. "Oh crap!"

"Hi." Spike said quietly. "Uh, I was just droppin' Dawn off. Din't think your mum'd fancy me takin' her for a walk in the sewers, an' I'm not exactly Mr. Sunshine--"

"Thank you," Buffy cut him off abruptly, unwilling to lengthen his stay. "We appreciate your help."

He nodded, eyes dark with hurt as he awkwardly leaned in and pressed his lips against Dawn's cheek, handing back her keychain as he withdrew. Buffy reached out and tugged her sister past the invisible threshold, giving her a quick once-over to ensure she'd come through her evening out without injury.

"Spike!" Dawn cried, looking over her shoulder at the retreating vampire. He paused and turned his head in her general direction, sensitive ears picking up the note of terror Buffy had just barely discerned in her little sister's voice. "Buffy, don't let him go away!"

"He's a big boy," Buffy said brusquely. "The sun's not up for another hour."

"But he's _hurt_!"

Spike seemed to flush at Dawn's outburst and continued walking, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat...the teenager wriggled in Buffy's grasp, obviously eager to go after the vampire but unable to risk yelling after him again. Seeing Dawn's distress sent a shock of realization through her older sister's chest; at some point, Dawn had gotten over Spike in a romantic sense and become his _friend. _And God knew Dawn had few enough of those, especially after her coming to terms with the fact that she wasn't even real, that her life had held no memories of things she had actually seen, or done, or felt. _Oh, hell._

"Spike!" The Slayer spoke as loudly as she could (without waking the others), wincing as he spun sharply at the heel and started back towards the house.

Dawn wrenched herself out of Buffy's arms and flew towards the little vampire, wrapping her arms around his neck and laughing as he spun her around; if one of the neighbors had looked outside, they would have said that a little girl had just been reunited with her father. Buffy watched with growing disquiet as Dawn said something to Spike, her eyes bright...and watched as Spike grimaced and set the girl back on her feet, pressing his palm against his stomach. If he'd walked all the way to their house with Dawn in his arms (as Buffy suspected he had), it most certainly would have undone any healing his vampire's body might have been able to accomplish with the injury on his side. And if he hadn't eaten that morning...Dawn screamed as Spike crumpled onto the rain-soaked pavement, head snapping against the cement with a resounding crack Buffy could feel in the soles of her feet.

* * *

_I've had a lot more trouble writing this one because I got temporarily un-inspired about halfway through, but I soldiered on. Haha!_

_-DP_


	4. Bid My Blood to Run

_Unfortunately, the almighty Joss Whedon owns more of my story and its characters than I do...that is to say, the entire cast of **Buffy the Vampire Slayer **and **Angel.**_

* * *

The woman yawned against his chest, fingertips sliding from his shoulder to his hip as she pushed herself up into a half-upright position, tipping her golden head to the side as she tested the muscles of her neck. She was warm against his side, her hip pressing into his with tender familiarity as she shifted and pulled a worn cotton comforter up over her breasts, simultaneously swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Sunlight played over the ivory skin of her back, its brilliant glow partially obscuring her lovely features...

"You're staring," she said, voice thick with amusement. She turned to face him a little, folding one leg back onto the mattress as he fumbled for an apology.

"'m sorry," he replied. "I din't--"

"I _liked_ it," she laughed. "Why do you always apologize for staring, William?"

"W-William?"

She rolled her eyes and moved until she was straddling his thighs, keeping the thin white sheets between them. It was cold in the room, and though it didn't bother him, he noticed that her skin was quickly losing its innate warmth and whatever comfort the quilt provided. Spike moved to wrap his arms around her and cover her with the thick blanket again, but she cut him off, wrapping a hand around his erection and squeezing fondly. She then leaned in and pressed her lips against his belly, the fingers of her left hand splaying over his side. A moment later she smiled teasingly and kissed her way along his abdomen, over his chest, until she was stretched out over him, her breath soft against his lips and chin.

"History lesson," she said. She lifted one of his hands off the mattress and placed it against the side of her throat; confused, Spike swept back the hair that had fallen over her shoulder, exposing a too-pale scar on the smooth skin. _Angel. _

"Yeah, I know 'bout it." He pulled his hand away, angered by the fact that she had brought his grandsire into the room. His irritation seemed to startle her, but she continued anyway, pressing the tips of her fingers against the place where Drusilla's fangs had immortalized him.

"Who gave this to you?" she asked searchingly. "Do you remember?"

"'f course. _Dru_."

"No," Her voice was firm, the voice of a schoolteacher reprimanding a naughty child. "No, _Spike_, that's not true."

"'f course it's true! I was bloody there!"

She smiled softly and placed her lips against the nigh-invisible mark on his neck, waiting there a moment before unexpectedly sinking her blunt teeth into the sensitive flesh. He was instantly hard enough to cut glass, his vision skewed for the space of a human heartbeat as pleasure coursed through his veins. It was only the sound of her laughter that drew him back to their bed, where she gently licked the place where she'd bitten and wrapped her slender body around him.

"Not Drusilla," she whispered. "You're mine, William."

And Spike felt his demon scream with delight as he slipped his fangs into her pale throat, testing what he already felt in his heart to be true. Little hands grasped at his shoulders, hot breath swirled in his ear as he tasted the spicy blood of his Slayer, holding her as close as physics would allow for several heartbeats. Only when he felt her trembling in his arms did he pull away, running his tongue over the bite to prevent further bleeding.

"Mine." he said, savoring the word on his lips.

"Yours," Buffy replied.

* * *

Spike groaned as Tara wrapped one of Joyce's winter scarves around his wrist, winding the other end around the bedpost with trembling fingers and looking anxiously towards the bedroom door. Dawn was hovering in the black gap, clothing and hair dripping rainwater onto the carpet as she watched them tie down the trembling vampire, blue eyes wide with a sort of stunned horror. He groaned again, fingers curling into fists, testing the strength of his bonds as Buffy stripped off his duster, his blood-soaked shirt. Dawn whimpered and lurched into the room, cold little fingers running over the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

The Wiccan took a few steps forward and slipped her palm under Dawn's fingers, closing her hand over them in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. She'd never been one for motherly displays of affection; that had always been someone else. _Like Joyce._

_"_Will, we need Giles here yesterday," the Slayer said sharply. "He's gonna wake up in a few minutes, and I can't hold him down all by myself."

"I'll help!" Dawn cried. "Spike won't hurt me!"

"No, Dawnie. He's not going to be _Spike_ when he wakes up. He's going to be William the Bloody."

"C'mon. We can't stay here." Tara pulled Dawn towards the doorway, silently reaching out and touching Willow's thoughts. _I'm taking Dawn to our room. If you need anything..._

_I'll let you know. _

************************************************

Giles walked quickly into the bedroom, noting the frayed fabric of the scarves that held Spike against the mattress and the pajama-clad Slayer straddling his narrow hips. She looked exhausted, sweat dripping from her forehead as she swiftly pressed her hands against the vampire's chest, pressing him into the sheets as his demon emerged with a startling series of crunches.

"Hey!" Buffy shouted. "Bad Spike!"

Her Watcher crouched at the bedside, examining the ripped mess of the little vampire's belly with an educated eye. He'd seen a few wounds like this in his lifetime, primarily in the years when his friends had called him Ripper and he'd enjoyed summoning random hell-monsters. Usually the victim had been someone foolish enough to piss off a demon they had no idea how to control... but very few demons had enough venom in their bite to keep wounds open, especially on a vampire some years past his centennial. And even fewer of those demons currently called Sunnydale home.

"He's been bitten by a Gora demon," Giles announced.

"Great. And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means I have to cut all this--" And he gestured towards the torn, blackening flesh that made up forty percent of Spike's abdomen. "--away, and we'll need to feed him human blood."

"Sounds easy enough." She lifted one hand and swiped at her face with a bloody t-shirt. "Start cutting."

He went into the hallway, where Joyce, Willow, Xander and Anya were standing around his bag, looking at him with inquisitive eyes. Joyce looked less concerned than all the others, considering that her daughter was currently sitting on a murderous, Slayer-killing demon, but he wasn't quite sure he could correctly measure her expressions anymore. She wasn't the woman she used to be; age had caught up with her long before it should have. Xander bent over and picked up Giles' bag, holding it out to him and asking,

"Is she okay in there?"

"Buffy's doing remarkably well," Giles replied, unable to keep a note of pride out of his voice. "But Spike is not."

"But he will be, right?" Anya asked. "He'll be 'well' soon?"

He glanced between her, Xander and Willow and gave them the most honest answer he could (knowing at least Xander didn't care anyway).

"Maybe."

* * *

"Please tell me you're not dropping Spike-meat onto my floor," Buffy whispered.

"Of course not." Her Watcher looked up at her worriedly. "Shouldn't you be--"

"Holding him down? Nah." She was currently sprawled across her bed, her lower body caught between Spike's legs, her upper body half-resting on his torso. It wasn't the best position for her to be in defense-wise, but the past hour or two had pretty much tired both of them out, and she was certain that he wouldn't immediately wake up and decide to eat her. Besides, he was very soft and nice to cuddle with now, and he kept saying really sweet things in his sleep.

"Hey, wanna hear him compliment me some more?" Buffy teased. "'Cause I can stand some ego-boosting."

"Please, no."

The vampire shifted uncomfortably, his thin face tight with pain as Giles' surgical scissors snapped shut for the umpteenth time that hour.

"I think you're hurting him," she said quietly.

"There's no way for this to not hurt, Buffy." Her Watcher's voice matched hers for softness, neither of them willing to draw Spike back into consciousness. She sighed and started humming a song about little girls her mom had used to make her go to sleep, mildly pleased when Spike's breathing evened out.

"Y'know, I think he's a mama's boy."

"Do tell." Giles said drily.

"He likes it when I sing to him, he's obviously a cuddler." She sat up, a smile stretching her face, and said, "And he really likes it when I play with his hair."

Her Watcher paused and fixed her with a decidedly Giles-like glare, the expression on his face switching between embarrassed and irritated.

"It's bad enough we have to see him like this in the first place. Don't play with him while he's sleeping."

"_Buffy._.." Spike murmured, tossing his head to the side. He was silent for a moment, full lower lip trembling as he dreamed...then his entire body tensed, his feet digging into the mattress and the muscles in his arms tightening under his ashen skin. Buffy immediately grasped his shoulders and forced him down, heart crumbling as he roared in pain.

"What did you _do_?" Buffy shouted.

"Nothing, I--"

Spike suddenly lurched up, the scarves around his wrists tearing as his hands fell to Buffy's waist, pulling her against him as he sank his fangs into her throat.

* * *

_Sorry for the delay between updates!_

_-DP_


	5. Come Undone

_Unfortunately, the almighty Joss Whedon owns more of my story and its characters than I do...that is to say, the entire cast of **Buffy the Vampire Slayer **and **Angel.**_

* * *

Buffy's scream pushed Joyce's heart into her throat, forcing her out of the corridor and into her eldest daughter's room. Giles was on the carpet, the blade of the scissors digging a bloody furrow in the cream of his shirt and his never-been-sunbathing skin. He cried out in pain but immediately pushed himself to his feet in order to better help Buffy; but Buffy was helping herself. Her fingernails slid over Spike's bare shoulder, drawing angry red lines in the colorless skin, the fingers of her other hand tugging on his vibrant white curls. The vampire grasped a handful of her thick blonde hair in response, his amber eyes sliding gradually towards their typical blue as he pulled his fangs out of her throat and kissed his way up to her jaw.

"Mine_."_ Spike whispered, pressing his forehead against Buffy's cheek. _"Mine."_

"_Yours." _Buffy replied, eyes fluttering shut as the fingers of her left hand pressed against the puncture wounds on her throat. They came away bloody, smearing crimson on the deathly pale skin of Spike's chest. He gently nuzzled her throat again, licking the place where he'd bitten her and drawing the bleeding to a close.

"Mine," he repeated, dropping back onto the pillows. She looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable; then her red-stained fingers curled into a fist and struck him sharply on the temple. His head snapped to the side and he was still once more, his crimson-dyed mouth the only sign anything had gone wrong.

Buffy sighed loudly and crumpled forward, landing with a quiet thump on the vampire's chest. Her hand absently rubbed circles into his uninjured side, eyelashes fluttering as she struggled for consciousness... and for a moment it seemed the entire world had gone silent. Then Giles stepped forward, sliding his good arm around Buffy's ribcage and lifting her off the sleeping vampire; or at least, he tried. Upon the Watcher's attempted removal of the unconscious Slayer, Spike growled into Buffy's hair and renewed his grip on her waist. Apparently the previous smack to the head haddone nothing to reliquish his dream-state. Buffy herself didn't seem to mind in the slightest, fingers reaching out and pulling the comforter up over her shoulders as she snuggled into the sleeping vampire's side.

The Englishman swore quietly and shook his fingers, splattering Watcher blood on the sleeping pair.

"We have a first aid kit downstairs," Joyce offered. "I'll keep an eye on them."

He nodded gratefully and hurried out of the room, one hand clamped tightly around his forearm. Joyce lingered in the doorway for another moment or two, struggling to summon up some sort of emotion as she watched Buffy cuddling up to the second worst vampire on planet Earth. Her little girl had just bled under his fangs, known pain at his hands...and still, she couldn't bring up more concern than she might have had for a murder victim on the evening news. Was it because the vampire had been Spike? Or was it because her heart already knew what her brain refused to accept; that she hated her children?

She abandoned the sight quickly after that, walking into her room as the horrible comprehension slowly burrowed further and further into her chest. Joyce blindly reached for the small book under her pillow and opened it, subconsciously eager to continue her quest for the end of her life.

_Mom's not the same. She looks different, hardly like Mom at all, and sometimes I think she hates me and Buffy for bringing her back. I've heard her walking the hallways at night, muttering things about where she was; it sounds like she misses it there. Today she asked where the picture was --like I would tell her!--, and I'm worried she's going to use it to kill herself. So tonight I'm taking it to his house and asking him to hide it. I don't know where, and I don't want to know, so if she asks me, I want to be able to tell her I have no idea and not feel like a liar. What's it called...God, I just heard it in a movie...plausible deniability! _Here she'd scratched out the word a few times with a pink gel pen, obviously unsure of the spelling. _Argh. Buffy's getting ready for patrol, so I have to start packing. It's still raining (we're in the middle of a freak storm or something), and it'll take longer to get there since I left my umbrella at Janice's. _

Joyce snapped the diary shut, grinding her teeth together and banging the back of her skull against the headboard. Her clever little Dawn had made sure she'd never get a hold of that goddamned picture, knowing Spike wouldn't give it up unless he had the teenager's say-so (and wasn't unconscious). But it wasn't only Dawn's betrayal that made that terrible little creature wiggling in her chest finally combust. What angered her most was that she couldn't enlist Willow for a tracking spell because Willow would tell Buffy, Tara wouldn't do anything without telling Willow who would tell Buffy, and Xander and Anya were so uselessly unmagical it didn't even matter that they'd go running to Buffy if she asked for help. No human being in town would want to help her looking the way she did--and many of them still remembered her death--so walking around looking for help would be a waste of time. No demon would help the Slayer's mother unless they were completely insane (as demons generally were), and none of them were powerful enough to face Buffy without...Joyce's spine straightened, the diary falling from her fingers as she realized there _was_ someone in Sunnydale who could help her.

What was the name of the Big Bad who'd just popped up in Sunnydale? Tory? Whory? Lory? _Glory_! Joyce could switch sides! She was, after all, short one soul and as remorseless as any demon, and from what she'd seen so far, Glory was desperate to get her hands on the Key. So Joyce had a bargaining chip--and a chance at revenge--, to go to the hellgod with.

_I'll have to wait a few days, try my options first. Maybe Spike'll tell me when he wakes up, or Dawn'll let it slip, _she thought. _Until Wednesday, and if I'm not dead again I'll go to Glory._

* * *

Soft, cream-colored light touched Buffy's cheeks with artificial warmth, the sounds of laughter and conversation gaining volume as she slowly drew herself out of consciousness and planted herself more firmly in the dream. And it _was_ a dream, she was certain of that; nowhere else would Xander be caught dead in a "Giles-suit", nor would Angel be chatting animatedly with Wesley and Giles, nor would Oz be spinning Willow in a graceful circle across a golden-tiled floor. Nowhere else would she be pressed against a man's chest, the scent of his cologne filling her nose as his arousal just barely pressed into her backside through the ruffles and layers of her gown. She smiled and pushed her hips against his, not enough that anyone would notice but enough that she could feel him stiffen behind her, a soft chuckle bursting from his lips. Buffy was immediately jerked back --roughly, the air whooshing out of her lungs-- to allow teasing fingers to slide along the curve of her spine and lightly pinch her ass.

"Riley?" She turned quickly, hands landing solidly on the broad shoulders of... "_Spike_?"

He held both hands palms-out in front of his chest, a mix of confusion and bitterness flashing in his eyes as she rubbed her palms against her skirt, itching to get the memory of touching him out of her skin. She spared him her dirtiest Slayer glare in mid-rub, ignoring the merry thrum of the music behind her and the gentle hurt that flickered across his face when her eyes struck his. Neither of them would fuel her anger, and goshdarnit, she felt like being angry for a second.

"What are you doing here?"

"Maybe I have an invite," he said loftily.

"And decided to grope the hostess? That's low, even for you Spike."

"Please," he scoffed. "Even 'f I _was_ that bad off, I think I could do better."

Ouch. Nothing like a good ol'fashioned ego-bruising to make a girl's self-esteem drop a notch or two. And it wasn't like her self-esteem meter had been through the roof lately; as a matter of fact, it was pretty much six feet under at the moment. Impulsively, Buffy reached out, her hand cracking against Spike's cheek and coaxing a harsh red weal into existence under his eye. His fingers immediately snapped up and caught her wrist, holding it against his face, nostrils flaring as he struggled to rein in his demon.

"I didn't mean that." he said firmly, his Cockney accent fading just a smidge in the midst of his anger. "You know I didn't."

"Why's that? Not cause you love me," she snapped. "Vampires don't know how to--"

The back of his hand collided sharply with the side of her face, and it was only his grip on her shoulder that kept Buffy from falling flat onto her ass. Stars danced across her field of vision, and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth; almost immediately she felt herself gathered up and pressed against his chest.

"'m sorry," he whispered. "You make me so bloody angry, sweetheart."

He leaned away from her, hands leaving her shoulders and gently framing her face; his thumb brushed away the single tear his slap had forced from her eyes with tender reverence, an apologetic smile touching his lips. She jerked her chin and looked pointedly at the floor, hoping her rejection would cause him pain. He sighed, dropped his head until their eyes were approximately at the same level -- this wasn't a difficult task, as he was only a few inches taller-- and moved his face towards hers until she could feel his lukewarm breath stroking her neck. It smelled sweet in comparison to the smoky leather scent of his body, like chocolate and peppermint with a tinge of copper; in spite of the throbbing discomfort on her cheek, she found herself longing to taste that sweetness on her tongue. An odd desire, but this was a dream, in spite of all the arguing and Buffy had what she wanted in her dreams.

She moved quickly, fingers curling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pressing her lips against his with swift and unexpected passion. He mumbled something against her mouth, hands abandoning her face and sliding over her shoulderblades, one settling in the small of her back whilst the other busied itself letting down her hair. Her skirts kept them from getting too close, being as ruffly and hoop-like as they were, but somehow Spike managed. His tongue traced her lower lip, begging for entrance; it was granted with an aquiescent moan as one of her hands feathered over his shoulder and lifted the hem of his dark tee to feel the carved muscle of his back.

"Oh, Buffy..." She tugged his face back towards her when he tried to speak, stroking his tongue with her own and swallowing his sweet nothings. This was the point, she decided, when they should both be suddenly and inexplicably naked, in the Dreamworld according to Buffy Summers.

Instead she found herself pressed between the hard planes of his body and an icy mirrored wall, her thick under-skirts wrenched away from her legs and waist with practiced hands. His head fell immediately to her neck, blunt teeth pulling gently on the ivory flesh and drawing a long, soft moan from her throat. He was rough with her, rougher than she thought he might have been, presumably caught up in the heat of the moment; she stroked his silken hair and pushed him closer, deaf to his own gasps and blind to the need burning in his eyes, etched into his face. Mediocre sex with Riley had often spurred on dreams like this, though usually her partner of choice was Angel or even Parker, if she'd had a particularly unsatisfying night...

_Angel!_

She didn't realize she'd said the name until he stopped, the muscles of his arms and back losing tension as he swore and pulled back, letting her slide unceremoniously to the ground. Buffy sat up, confused when Spike turned and stomped a few feet away; sure, most of the time she said the right name, but this was only a dream. Her partners didn't usually get offended when she misspoke.

"This is a nightmare," he muttered. "A fucking _nightmare_."

"I don't understand." Buffy gathered herself up and went to him, secretly grateful that their display had been private, that none of the dancers had seen them.

"Damn you, Buffy." Spike said, his voice trembling. If he hadn't had his back to her, she might have seen the frustrated tears ribboning down his cheeks. "You're gonna make my life hell."

"I--" She placed her fingertips against the sharp cut of his shoulderblade, but he flinched away.

"This isn't your dream, Buffy. It's _our_ dream," he said. "An' I din't fancy havin' you scream the Grand Poof's name in the middle 'f it."

"We can't share a dream. This is either mine or yours." Bewilderment spread through her veins. "We just can't share!"

"Out there," Spike said. "I bit you," He clenched his fist, an angry growl rumbling in his chest. "An' I made you mine, an' you don't want me. Dunno know why I thought you would. Delirious, I s'pose." Now it seemed he was speaking to himself, his voice bitter and thick with self-loathing. "Why would you want me? Don't have a soul. Not bloody _Angel. _"

"What are you talking about?"

_Buffy, wake up! _Her little sister's voice drifted sluggishly through the ballroom, tinny and faraway. _Buffy, what are you doing?!_

She debated repeating the question when a hand on her physical body yanked her sharply out of the fuzzy depths of unconsciousness.

* * *

It was a painful awakening, though this time he couldn't place the blame on his injury. That actually felt better, probably something to do with the fact that he'd gotten a mouthful of Slayer blood before bedtime and slept for a few straight hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that; Buffy's worries seemed to have become his own in the past few weeks, what with the Bitch from Hell (literally) making her life a nightmare, Joyce's resurrection, and the nasty little hobbits poking around Sunnydale looking to spill Dawn's blood. Spike groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his eyelids and struggling to force Buffy out of his mind. Soft, gasping, lovely Buffy with all the soft skin and warmth he'd always dreamed of... the same Buffy who didn't want him. He had tasted her digust when he'd first found himself in her dream, no doubt an immediate side-effect of the goddamned claim that had seemed like such a good idea in his bloody mind and how in God's name did he convince himself to think she'd be happy about it?

_Where is Buffy?_

The thought, while unexpected, sent an inexplicable pang of terror through his heart. He leaned down, felt the rumpled pillows beside his own; warm, thick with the smell of Buffy's hair and Buffy's blood. It had been this smell that had first reminded him of the hazy moment when he'd gathered her into his arms, felt her fragile heart hammering against his silent chest. She _had_ been here... a soft yawn from the room next door eased his sudden pain. Or his trivial pain, anyway. The Slayer's just-got-up feelings fluttered in the base of his skull, all pink and gold, just touched with a hint of worried purple as, perhaps, the reality of their dream struck her.

"Such a bloody idiot," he grumbled. Now he was stuck knowing how Buffy felt about him, about everything; he was tied to her emotions and wrapped up in her blood and there was no undoing it.

"'m goin' home," Spike said decisively. "'m goin' home, an' gettin' drunk, an' forgettin' all about the fuckin' Scoobies."

"Hey. We're not so easily forgotten," Xander spoke from the doorway, dark eyes fixed pointedly on the wall above Spike's head.

"Yeah, well, after a coupla drinks we'll just see what you forget."

"Listen up, evil undead." The carpenter walked further into the room, still looking at the wall as Spike fumbled for his shirt and rebuttoned it the best he could. Damn Slayer ripped it apart, so only two or three buttons were even still attached, but he managed. "Hey, would ya quit messin' with your clothes for a second while I'm talking?"

"Shut your gob, Harris." He ripped his duster off a nearby chair and started towards the door, stuffing his arm through one sleeve... and Xander reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a thick hunk of wood that looked like it had once been part of a fencepost, coated as it was in molding white paint and ancient grass-stains. This he pressed into Spike's chest, directly above his unbeating heart with a precision only someone who'd watched Buffy kill vamps for five years could manage.

"Listening now?"

************************************************

Buffy woke up in Dawn's room, surrounded by creepy plush animals that all appeared to be ogling her with their big plastic eyes. She pushed away a particularly leery cow and sat up, kicking the sheets off of her legs and placing her head between her knees. Her brain was still kind of swimmy...Dawn landed with a thump on the mattress beside her, a friendly smile painted onto her face. A too-friendly smile that made Buffy wish for the leery cow and weird dreams starring Spike and Buffy Mistake Number 456.

"Stop grinning at me," she groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. "I'm sick."

"Nah, I think you're fine," Dawn said cheerfully. "Besides, you weren't down this long when Angel bit you, and he took more than Spike did."

_Out there. I bit you, an' I made you mine, an' you don't want me. _Horror streaked through her veins as probing fingers found the gauze taped to the side of her neck, covering the double scars from Angel and the Master; triple scars now. Dawn's smile faltered, and she peered at the bandage, fingernails plucking at the surgical tape clinging to Buffy's skin.

"Did it hurt?" Her little sister's voice was solemn, worried. "You can tell me the truth, if you want."

There wasn't an honest answer to that. It had hurt before, but each experience had been different. With the Master, her fear had intensified the pain, made it feel like she was dying with each pull. With Angel, her love for him had taken the edge off, but she had still thought she felt her heart struggling to beat in her chest. With Spike...there had been only the initial sting of pain and then nothing, like he hadn't bothered to do anything more than just bite.

"Yes," she replied.

"I didn't think he would hurt you," Dawn murmured, wrapping a cautious arm around Buffy's shoulders. "But I guess it's like with those crocodiles on that Australian show, y'know? Pain made him go all bitey-bitey."

_An' you don't want me._

Sound from the next room made Buffy flinch, the creak of the mattress and the gentle murmur of voices painting a vivid picture in her mind. Spike had gotten up-- possibly remembering their shared dream-- and decided to leave; and somebody wasn't letting him. _Please let him go. I don't need the lovesick undead crap right now. _Dawn snuggled closer to her older sister, sharp little chin digging into her shoulder, half-reminding Buffy of cozying up to pale flesh and white hair...and then the wall trembled and a vampire's roar throbbed through the house, animalistic and frightening as hell. Buffy instinctively thrust Dawn off the mattress and onto the floor, in the same movement rolling off the bed and tumbling smoothly to the carpeted ground in front of the door.

"BUFFY!" Spike screamed, his fury finding a human voice at last.

She wrenched the door open and found herself in the hall with Xander, who held the splintered point of a stake--and an injured arm-- against his chest as a bruise swelled under his eye. He spared her a brief, friendly smile, abandoning the stake in favor of a quick squeeze of her fingers. Then Spike shouted again, and she quickly tugged the shattered stake out of her best friend's hand and continued moving into her room, bracing herself for the worst...

Azure eyes glittered balefully beneath his inky eyelashes, the grey corona around the iris dyed a pale orange...William the Bloody was close to the surface. She stopped moving entirely, palm sweating against the cracked wood of the broken stake as he moved away from the window and towards her, the muscles of his jaw twitching as his features morphed into those of the demon. Would there be time for her to use it if he attacked? Spike was one of the fastest vampire's she'd come up against, and if he found a way to separate her from her weapon then the fight would be over quickly. More quickly than it might have been (they were usually very evenly matched); her legs were still shaking from the blood loss. What had she been thinking, running in without backup?

"Buffy," Spike said roughly, his face reluctantly returning to its human form. "'m not gonna hurt you, sweetling."

He slapped the stake out of her hand and cupped her cheek in the same motion, drawing her gently but insistently against him and pushing his mouth against hers. The little vampire tasted exactly as he had in dreams, though he was decidedly bolder in his explorations of her mouth in the real world, sealing their lips together with an ardorous moan as his tongue tangled with her own. She could feel the bulge in his jeans against her stomach, just as he was sure he could feel the sudden wave of heat and dampness between her thighs. Her hands slid subconsciously to his buttocks, urging him closer with a loud gasp. Blood hurried to her cheeks almost immediately, staining them a humiliating shade of pink as his fingers tugged on her lace-covered nipple; God, where were her friends? The last thing she needed was a repeat of their dream performance...when he released her, it was sudden and without warning, and somehow left Buffy feeling more confused than ever.

"An' I won't come back again," he growled.

Spike straightened his duster and brushed past her, calm as you please. But she could almost taste his pain in the air; pain she'd somehow caused, pain far worse than whatever he'd felt under the Gora demon's teeth. _Oh, God. What have I done?_

************************************************

A rap at the door startled Joyce out of her afternoon musings, drawing her away from the gold-streaked window with a reluctant grumble. She thought she'd seen one of Glory's little hobbit-people scurrying around on the lawn...maybe a sign from Buffy's PTB?

"What do you want?" she snapped.

"I, um. B-buffy j-j-just got u-up, and w-we thought you'd l-like to see her." The Wiccan dipped her head in silent preparation for another outburst, shoulders tightening as the sound of Joyce's teeth grinding together scraped against her ears. Buffy had said her mother would be short-tempered in the weeks after her operation, but nothing had prepared Tara for this; the hideous pallor of her skin, the withdrawal of her eyes into her skull...not to mention the cold streaks in her aura, ragged about the edges, as though the operation had shredded her soul instead of repairing her brain. "B-but I, um, can s-see y-you're b-b-b-busy, so I'll g-go."

"Please," Buffy's mother said sharply. "And could you tell Dawnto quiet down? I'm having trouble falling asleep."

_Sleep? At four in the afternoon?_

"I c-can t-tell," Tara replied. She regretted the words the moment they fell from her lips, turning and hurrying for the stairs so she wouldn't have to see that deathly face darken with anger; a hand clamped down on her shoulder, bony fingers pressing into the Willow-warmed skin. She'd just been with her girlfriend when Buffy came down, pretty face pale as she explained Spike's inexplicable and stormy exit. She hadn't explained Xander's scream, but the young man had done that for them soon enough. After Giles had splinted his arm.

"What was that supposed to mean?"

"N-nothing..."

"You think I'm ugly?" Joyce rasped, her voice thick with unspoken fury. The graven chill of her flesh felt as though it were burning Tara's shirt, sinking into the warm tissue surrounding her heart like icy water...she squirmed uncomfortably, reaching for her voice but unable to find it in the whirl of her thoughts. "You think the doctors did this to me?" She forcibly turned the Wiccan to face her, grabbing one of her hands and digging the nails into the ashen cheek, scraping them against the pallid flesh until skin peeled away; where there should have been blood, there was none, only pale white...

"_Oh_," Tara whimpered, mentally reaching out to Willow and seeing in her mind's eye her lover stumbling to her feet, rushing for the stairs--

"TARA!" Willow cried. "What's wrong?!"

Joyce released the young woman with a gasp, her hand flying to cover her thin lips, shame burning in the pits of her eyes. She stepped back into Dawn's room and closed the door with a bang; only then did Tara realize she hadn't been breathing for the past two minutes, and crumpled wordlessly onto the carpet, mind whirling with images of Joyce's corpse-like visage, terrible in its anger.

************************************************

Glorificus was not amused.

"I sent you to spy on a slumber party, idiot!" She slammed her hand, palm-down, onto the marble countertop; several multi-colored lipsticks spilled onto the floor. One of the scabby morons bent over and began sweeping them into his brown robe, obviously hoping to be next to fill the role of personal slave. Jinx's position was about to open up; she couldn't very well let him live, not with his incapacitating wound and the information regarding the exact when, where, and how of the sacred ritual...which he might be tempted to share if she simply ordered him out of her presence. "Pillow-fights, makeovers...was all that too scary for you? Is that why you came back with NOTHING?! AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON?!" Glory swiped the rest of her makeup off the counter, reveling in the explosion of shattered glass and blending ickiness. _Damn him, I'll have to get somebody to buy me more._

"O Magnificent One, I offer my humblest apologies for abandoning my post, truly," Jinx said grandly. "But there was a slight accident at the house regarding the Slayer's mother--"

"Mommy?" Glory spun to face her little...thingy, checking her glistening crimson nails for any imperfections as she did so. Wouldn't do to have one of them see her with a hair out of place; it was difficult enough to keep their loyalty when she spent half of her time wearing Ben's body. _Yuck._ "Is there blood?"

"Not hers, I'm afraid." Jinx waved his hands in the air, accidentally-- or maybe on purpose-- smacking the lipstick collector in the back of the head. The hapless creature fell forward into the mix of liquid concealer, nail polish, and body glitter with a wet plop, permanently soiling its burlap robes. Submissive her slaves might be, coordinated they were not. God, she hated this world. _Concentrate, Glory. Go for the kill, not the pain._

"Go on, Jinxie," Glory said encouragingly. "Don't stop now."

"She...well, last night I discovered that not everyone in the Slayer's family are what they appear to be."

She leaned forward, unable to keep the predatory gleam from her eyes. The lipstick collector was abruptly pushed out the bathroom door, which in turn was closed by an overeager Jinx; Glory jabbed a finger into his injured stomach to keep him focussed.

"Explain."

* * *

_Sorry for the delay between updates! This chapter's longer to make up for my next possible delay..._

_-DP_


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